So Now You're Back

by Heidi Rice

  ‘Hang on a minute. Therapy? What do you mean therapy? You said this was just a glorified holiday.’ She sounded horrified. So horrified he almost smiled.

  Did she think he was a masochist? As if he would have suggested spending two weeks in couples’ therapy with a woman he hadn’t spoken to in sixteen years? As tempting as it was to string her along for a few minutes, though, and watch her freak out entirely, he was way too knackered to handle another hissy fit.

  ‘I said his method of therapy. There’s no actual therapy involved. Which is convenient given that from my research I can’t find any evidence of couples’ resolution training on his part. What he calls therapy is basically just active participation in “bonding exercises”.’

  She sighed, her relief palpable as she muttered something under her breath that sounded very religious for a woman who had never gone to church to his knowledge.

  ‘So how exactly am I supposed to fit into all this?’ The pissy tone had downgraded to tense, which Luke took as a good sign. ‘We don’t want to repair our relationship. In fact, we don’t even have a relationship to repair,’ she continued in an incredulous tone. ‘And if you brought me here to pretend we do, then you can forget it, because Oscar-worthy acting was not part of the agreement I signed.’

  OK, maybe not completely un-pissy.

  ‘No acting required. Because we do have a relationship that could use some work.’ He let the assertion echo in the car above the twang of Hank Williams Sr’s guitar.

  The Lexus slipped round another bend before she finally spoke. ‘And what relationship would that be?’ Scepticism dripped from every word.

  ‘Our relationship as Lizzie’s parents.’

  Hank Sr wailed melodically about cheating hearts and crying all night over the purr of the car’s engine. To her credit, when Halle finally replied, she didn’t sound pissy, she sounded astonished.

  ‘Lizzie’s eighteen. You walked out when she was two and a half. Why on earth would Monroe believe after all these years we would suddenly want to repair our relationship as her parents?’

  Good question. When they could have sorted it out years ago if she had been prepared to stop sulking and actually communicate with him about their daughter.

  Unfortunately, having that showdown would have to wait until his brain didn’t feel as if it were turning to mush.

  ‘If Monroe asks, I’ll do the talking,’ he said, stowing his resentment for the time being. He’d waited sixteen years to set Halle straight about his role as Lizzie’s dad. He could wait a couple more days. ‘But I doubt he will,’ he added, feeling suitably magnanimous.

  He’d dragged Halle out here to do the right thing for Lizzie. And possibly win a Pulitzer. Not to rehash their past.

  ‘If I’m right about this guy, all he’s interested in is the bottom line,’ he continued. ‘Which in this case is the chance of some great publicity.’

  ‘He knows you’re a journalist?’

  ‘Of course he does. He thinks I’m writing a puff piece. The best cover stories are the ones that don’t deviate too far from the truth.’

  ‘So he knows who I am, too?’

  ‘Don’t worry, he offers his clients complete confidentiality. I checked,’ he said, heading off the latest hissy fit at the pass.

  ‘All right, but what happens to your article if he does fix it?’

  ‘Fix our relationship, you mean?’ He risked a look away from the road, feeling light-headed. And not just from exhaustion. Was she actually going to admit how counterproductive her sixteen-year sulk had been so soon? ‘So we can finally start to communicate amicably with each other about what’s best for our daughter?’ he added.

  ‘I certainly hope that’s not what you asked him to do.’ She slanted a look that didn’t exactly scream contrite—or amicable. ‘Because then you really aren’t going to have much of an article on your hands.’

  ‘How do you figure that?’ he said, confused now.

  ‘Well, it’s hardly a rigorous test of his methods or abilities now, is it?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve refused to talk to me for sixteen years except through your solicitor, despite repeated requests from me.’ Forget nudging. ‘If you’re still pissed off about what I did, I don’t see how we’re supposed to get past that if you won’t speak to me.’ And sod magnanimous, too. ‘If Monroe can put a stop to your epic sulk, I’d not only be impressed, I’d be totally bloody gobsmacked.’ Which was exactly why he wasn’t about to leave it to Monroe.

  ‘I don’t doubt you would be, because it would involve him getting me to do what you want, without you having to get your hands dirty,’ Halle replied. ‘Which has always been your preferred rule of engagement.’

  ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ he shouted, sixteen years of resentment finally blasting through the last of his composure—and his good intentions.

  He was getting his bloody hands dirty. In fact, they were good and filthy. The shit he’d had thrown at him already included the sad truth he wasn’t as immune to Halle as he should be—not to mention their pointless return trip to the humiliations of his youth on the plane. And they weren’t even at the bloody resort yet.

  ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you, Luke, the reason I never wanted to talk to you again was simply because I never wanted to be lied to again?’

  Halle watched Luke’s brows arrow down.

  That’d be a no, then.

  ‘I got over being pissed off with you a long time ago,’ she added. Which if she kept saying it often enough must surely make it true. ‘My refusal to communicate with you wasn’t because I was sulking. It was because I didn’t trust you. Because, guess what? Trust has to be earned. I can’t imagine what Monroe’s going to be able to do about the sad fact you never did a single thing to earn mine.’

  He was quiet for a long time, the purr of the engine the only sound. That and Dolly Parton crooning about always loving someone while walking away from them.

  Trust Dolly to add the perfect note of irony.

  The car slowed as an elaborate sign appeared, looking out of place on the lonely road, proclaiming it was only three miles to The Monroe Couples’ Resolution Retreat. They continued on in silence for ten pregnant minutes as the Lexus turned off the highway and took the narrow one-track road.

  It wasn’t until Luke had given their details to the guard at the manned security booth and driven through the gate to the resort that he spoke again. ‘Then I guess it’s a good thing Monroe’s “bonding exercises” to re-establish trust are so extreme.’

  Wait a minute. Extreme. Extreme how?

  ‘Exactly how extreme are they?’ Why hadn’t she read that bloody itinerary?

  She didn’t do extreme, not when primeval wildernesses were concerned. She’d never even been tempted to appear on I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here! despite numerous overtures to her agent. And they paid you for that.

  ‘You know, as in Xtreme sports, extreme. Hiking, white-water rafting, wilderness camping, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You are not serious?’ she said, unable to quell the tremble of horror.

  She didn’t do camping. She didn’t even do glamping. Sleeping outdoors with only a flimsy layer of nylon between her and the untamed primal wilderness that currently surrounded them might actually be more traumatic than having to sit through two weeks of real couples’ counselling with Luke.

  And white-water rafting? When I can get seasick in a pedalo? I’ll die.

  He parked the car in front of a wood-framed reception building that looked like a quaint country farmhouse complete with white picket fence and rocking chairs on the porch.

  ‘Actually, I’m dead serious.’ His lopsided smile suggested her horrified reaction wasn’t going to cause him any sleepless nights. ‘Trust me.’

  Chapter 10

  Three a.m. and all’s crap, frankly.

  Halle stared at the digital clock on her iPhone.

  Because I’m lying in bed contemplating two solid weeks of extrem
e sports torture in the company of a man who can infuriate me just by breathing. Oh, yeah, and it’s three o’clock in the fricking morning and I’m wide awake.

  Of course, it also didn’t help that last night she’d discovered the deluxe hillside cabin, overlooking the glorious untamed wilderness of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, not only didn’t have a pool, but it also didn’t have a TV, a phone signal or any Wi-Fi.

  Obviously, ‘rebuilding love relationships’ in Jackson Monroe’s world involved making sure that those relationships were rebuilt on the bedrock of lots and lots of enforced intimacy. After the thirteen hours she’d spent in Luke’s company already, she suspected spending two weeks with him constantly in her face was liable to send her screaming into the woods. Literally.

  Suddenly the possibility of closure, the reason she’d agreed to this stupid trip in the first place, didn’t look anywhere near as attractive as it had in Paris. What if being this close to Luke triggered more of those hormonal flashbacks like the one she’d had on the plane? Or, worse, gave him the opportunity to undermine her confidence as a mother?

  It had taken years for her to arrive at a good place as a parent, or a good enough place. Lizzie still had issues, issues that Luke was completely oblivious to, but they were normal teenage issues. Their daughter wasn’t anorexic or a drug addict and Halle had survived four months of family therapy to prove it. And she wasn’t about to let Luke—the part-time parent par excellence—make her feel inadequate.

  She should have complained to Luke about their sleeping arrangements the night before but there hadn’t been an opportune moment. After signing about a billion release forms and filling out an ominous questionnaire about their physical fitness levels, they’d been shown to their accommodation to find a lavish supper of cold cuts and salads laid out in the cabin’s main living area. Luke’s head had been lolling over the dishes as soon as he’d sat down and she’d ended up taking pity on him and telling him to go crash out before he face-planted in the potato salad.

  She’d decided to tackle the thorny issue of getting a new, separate cabin tomorrow.

  But as she’d cleaned up their dinner dishes, she’d rationalised away her qualms. He had a separate room on the cabin’s mezzanine level with a separate bathroom. And she didn’t even like him. And he didn’t like her.

  It wasn’t as if she actually fancied him. Even the new, more buff Luke wasn’t sexy enough to make her forget what a bastard he was, or the underhanded tactics he’d used to get her here. And the ‘extreme bonding experiences’ detailed in Monroe’s brochure—which she’d read last night from cover to cover—should do the rest of the job. If there was anything guaranteed to put inappropriate thoughts about her ex out of her mind, it was the prospect of white-water rafting.

  But now it was 3.15 a.m. She was hideously alert thanks to the jet lag. And she didn’t have a thing to do, or a to-do list to start arranging to do it with, for the first time in, well, forever. Which meant she had rather more time than she wanted to consider all the cons of her situation.

  She lay in the bed, breathing in the scent of air freshener and lavender polish, listening to the clip-clip-clip of the ceiling fan above her head, and struggled to focus on the pros instead. And not picture the man lying in the bed above her. And the odd and completely arbitrary notion that he might be sleeping in the raw, the way he always used to.

  Do not go there. For that way lies more unwanted hormone bumps.

  She scanned the pseudo rustic antique furnishings, the sturdy maple-wood dresser, the gleaming oil lamp on top that looked like a forgotten prop from Little House on the Prairie, and realised that apart from the potential hazards of sharing a cabin with Luke, it felt good, liberating even, to have the luxury of lying in bed. With not a thing to do.

  She really should have thought of taking a week for herself sooner.

  Clearly, she had been in serious need of a de-stress. A bit of genuine me time.

  With the forest outside still dark, though, she decided she needed something more tangible than no to-do list appreciation to make the most of her first morning of me time.

  She padded to the kitchen and took a moment to appreciate the polished surfaces and top-of-the-range appliances and the glorious view of the forest, the dawn light just beginning to set the leaves on fire.

  The glass-fronted cabinets were stocked with staples as well as some local delicacies, assuming that’s what a funnel cake was. But before she could read the ingredients, she shoved the package mix back onto the shelf and slammed the door.

  She needed a break from the kitchen, and best not cook anything while Luke was in residence, or she might be tempted to poison him. She headed off in search of caffeine.

  It took twenty minutes to figure out the coffee machine, which had enough bells and whistles and unexplained buttons to quite possibly perform brain surgery as well as make an espresso. One watery cup of lukewarm coffee later, she returned to her bedroom delighted to see the dawn angling through the line of fir trees that sloped away down the mountainside.

  A heavy fog rolled over the cabin’s wraparound porch, swirling around the rocking chairs outside and then gradually dispersing as the morning light arrowed through the dense foliage in picturesque shards that reminded her of the eerie setting in a vintage horror movie. She became absorbed in the beauty of the view through the bedroom’s glass double doors. And took a moment to absorb the novelty again of having nothing to do. And nowhere to go.

  Snuggling back under the intricate patchwork quilt—another of Ma Ingalls’s heirlooms, no doubt—she began reading one of the novels she’d downloaded onto her iPad months before and never found the time to read.

  It was a good book, just the sort she enjoyed reading in her downtime, downtime that had been virtually absent in far too long. Frivolous and pulpy and romantic, with a fabulously sassy female lead. But then the fabulously sassy female lead met some hot guy in a bar in chapter two, took him home to her apartment and started getting fabulously pornographic with him on her kitchen counter.

  Crossing her legs under the quilt, Halle squeezed her melting thigh muscles and flung down the iPad.

  Nope, still not going there.

  Putting on a sweater over her PJs, she stepped onto the wraparound porch, breathed in the scent of tree resin and musty earth, and congratulated herself on keeping any more of those unwanted hormonal bumps at bay.

  Then she spotted a hot tub, lurking at the bottom of the screened porch, steam rising in wisps from under the heavy plastic covering. And a picture of Luke stark naked and fully aroused blasted into her unprotected jet-lagged brain without warning.

  Figment-of-her-imagination Luke sat on the edge of the hot tub. His chest muscles glistening as if he’d been oiled like a Chippendale, droplets of water sparkling in the dawn light as they ran down his rock-hewn abdomen, begging her to lick them off. Worst of all, his penis stood thick and magnificently erect, the circumcised head flushed with blood and shiny with the sheen of pre-cum.

  Heat blossomed in her sex and her clitoris ached, slick and swollen between her thighs. She swung round and charged back to her room.

  Time for action. Tangible action. Right now.

  This delusion had nothing to do with Luke, and everything to do with her sadly neglected libido. A blind date with Bugs was all she needed. Clearly, being in Luke’s company for more than twenty-four hours, after six months without an orgasm, had been stressful enough to give her pornographic delusions of epic proportions.

  Stop thinking in penis euphemisms. It’s not helping.

  She rushed over to her suitcase, then stumbled to a halt as she recalled the one item—the one single solitary item on the bloody to-do list from hell that had gotten lost in her scramble to finish the Kane Corp redesign, have a quiet chat with Trey about Lizzie and get a home-cooked meal down her children on Thursday evening.

  Seriously? You forgot to pack Bugs!

  ‘So, folks, it’s great to meet y’all. How are y�
�all enjoying our little resort so far?’ Jackson Monroe beamed bonhomie from across the ornate walnut desk.

  He was older and rounder in person, Halle decided, than he’d seemed on Graham Norton’s sofa a couple of months ago. Bushy eyebrows and the wisps of hair peeking out of his nose and ears, plus the leathery skin, put him in his mid-sixties at Halle’s best estimate. But his grey eyes, despite the grandfatherly smile, were sharp and shrewd.

  ‘The cabin’s great, thanks, Mr Monroe. The view’s astonishing,’ Luke replied, the buttering-up routine, which he’d begun two minutes ago when they’d been introduced to Monroe in the reception area, still in full flow.

  ‘Call me Jake, Luke.’ Monroe laughed heartily. ‘We’re all friends here.’ His eyes literally twinkled. Halle wondered if he had special eye drops. ‘But I do love your proper English manners,’ he added, putting on a torturously pompous approximation of a British accent.

  Not to mention every cliché in the book How to Schmooze the Paying Customer for Dummies, Halle thought. Surely the man had to be a charlatan, because he was oozing enough oily charm to rival the Deepwater Horizon slick.

  ‘And how are you doing, ma’am? I’ve got to say I’m thrilled to meet the great Halle Best. Nora and I love your show. We catch it every chance we get on our local PBS channel.’

  ‘How wonderful.’ She smiled graciously, trying not to let her irritation show. ‘I’m equally thrilled to discover my little ole recipes are bringing in new fans across the pond.’

  Monroe chortled amiably while placing his meaty forearms on the desk. ‘I hope you’re as happy as Luke is with our amenities,’ he added, boldly fishing for more compliments.

  It was the cue she’d been waiting for. For four hours.

  While feeling increasingly annoyed with herself, and Luke.

  She’d had a cold shower after her vision on the porch, only to walk into the kitchen to find Luke scoffing down one of the hot buttered blueberry muffins that had been delivered to the cabin for their breakfast. Her gaze had become riveted to the strong column of his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing every time he swallowed.